


Safe in Your Hands

by ratherastory



Series: Fusion 'verse [26]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Curtain Fic, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-07
Updated: 2012-02-07
Packaged: 2017-11-03 06:36:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/378403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ratherastory/pseuds/ratherastory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel begins to recover from his injuries, only to discover something unusual about his relationship with Sam.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Safe in Your Hands

**Author's Note:**

> Neurotic Author's Note #1: So this is the next part after **Not the Fall, But the Landing**. Alas that it doesn't really explain exactly what happened to Cas, but it's the closest we've come so far. Please don't kill me in my sleep, 'kay? /o\  
>  Neurotic Author's Note #2: One day, I will have filled in all the gaps in this story, but that day appears to be pretty far away. I can't believe I have nearly thirty chapters of this beast written.  
> Neurotic Author's Note #3: You know, when I started writing this 'verse, it was all about Sam 'n' Dean, and it still is, in most ways. It's just that Cas kind of appeared one day and I kind of want to keep him around, like a stray puppy in a trench coat. I don't know what that says about me.

It's too warm. In Heaven, it never occurred to Castiel to worry about temperature —he always new precisely what it was at any given time, but it didn't affect him. Angels don't experience these things in the way of mortal, finite beings. Heaven is a construct, unaffected by the vagaries of climate and weather, and whether it was raining or snowing or the sun was shining or the wind was blowing was always simply a matter of aesthetics. Some angels preferred the snow, because it reminded them of the purity of God's love, but Cas himself preferred summer days, when the sky was blue and the foliage at its deepest shade of green, the breeze whispering along the grass. All of these sang to him of his Father, and all he had to do was simply be, and in that moment of being he was comforted.

It was only when he took his first vessel that Castiel truly learned why the changes in weather were important. While he himself was unaffected by it all, he could feel Jimmy's body reacting to the cold —the fine hairs on his skin prickling to form goosebumps in a pathetic attempt to keep the body warm, his teeth beginning to chatter, fingers turning blue if they weren't encased in pockets or gloves. He remembers the first time he smelled pine upon the breeze, the first time he felt sunlight on his skin, how it had tingled pleasantly and he had simply tilted his face up toward the sky, even as Uriel laughed indulgently at him.

_I forgot that you have never before had a vessel, little brother,_ he'd said. _The novelty will wear off soon enough, and you will learn just how limiting life down here really is._

He did learn, but he doesn't regret the lesson. He just wishes it weren't so hot right now. Dean once explained the principle to him: if you're too hot, you simply remove outer layers of clothing, or take other measures to cool off. Castiel can feel something weighing on him, bearing him down to press painfully against the unforgiving earth, and he tells himself all he has to do is remove the offending layer, and it will ease his discomfort. Before he's managed to free himself, though, a hand —much larger than his own— catches him by the wrist.

"Shh, easy Cas. You have to leave that where it is, okay?"

He doesn't understand the instructions, even though he knows the voice. Or, rather, he thinks he knows the voice, but it's impossible because he knows its owner to be dead. Or is he? Angels don't experience time in a linear fashion, except for when they're occupying their vessels, and he doesn't quite remember how he came to be here, in the warm and in the dark, with familiar voices whispering around him. He's too hot, though, and he knows how to remedy that, so he tries again, only to be stopped once more by the same gentle hand.

"Cas, listen to me, you need to leave that on."

Castiel tries to explain about his heating problem, but whoever it is appears not to hear the thought form that he sends out. Or, rather, the person hears —because he feels the hand tighten around his wrist in response— but doesn't understand. Castiel is still in his vessel, he knows this, and it occurs to him that he should try to vocalize his need, that this is what one should do when in one's vessel. He feels his lips part, feels a small, sharp pain in the corner of his mouth followed by the faint coppery tang of blood on his mouth.

"Hot," is all he can manage, and the hand lets go of his wrist, moves up to cup his jaw for a moment. It feels nice.

"Okay, Cas. You sit tight. I'm going to get something... uh, it'll make you feel better, okay?"

He doesn't understand how that's possible, but he doesn't appear to have a choice in the matter. Slowly he's becoming aware of more than the discomfort of excessive heat, a spreading ache that's quickly turning into a throb of pain in his side. He forces his eyes open, finds himself staring at a vast expanse of white. It takes him a moment to recognize the ceiling of Sam and Dean's living room —he barely remembers the fight now, his last, desperate attempt at flight. The terrifying plummet to Earth which felt perilously close to Falling in the worst sense of the word. He's on the pull-out bed in their living room, can feel the metal springs through the mattress, though they're not uncomfortable per se. The discomfort, he finds, is coming from elsewhere. He moves his hand down to probe carefully at his stomach, only to be rewarded with a flash of pain so intense it forces him to curl in on himself, arms wrapped around his midsection.

"Aw, Cas..." Hands pull on his shoulders, coax him to straighten out, and the pain eases a little. "Easy, now. Come on, you can't stay like that. Hey, sit up for me, okay? I'll help, come on."

Castiel feels an arm slip under his shoulders, pull him upright, and he turns his head, blinking hard until he's able to focus, to recognize the owner of the voice. "Dean?" But that's not right, he knows it even as the words leave his lips.

There's a soft snort. "No, Cas, it's me. It's Sam. Dean's at work, he'll be back later, but he'll call. He'll call before he comes back, on his lunch break. Drink this, okay?"

Something hard and cool presses against his lips. It takes him a moment to figure out that it's a glass of water, and another moment to figure out what he's supposed to do with it. He tries to tell Sam that angels don't require hydration, swallows reflexively when the water hits his throat instead. It tastes lovely, cool and soothing, and he swallows again, finishes the entire glass without being prompted. Sam eases him back, rearranging the pillows on his bed with one hand, lets go in order to pull up the blankets, and the pain in Castiel's side flares at the unexpected movement. Sam can't help with this, but it doesn't prevent Castiel from trying to tell him anyway —the pain is so sudden that he can't quite help himself, can't stop the instinctive cry for help— and Sam flinches visibly even as he's making sure Castiel is comfortable.

"Are you hurting, Cas?"

He nods a little desperately, and Sam pets him, smoothing his hair away from his forehead. It's comforting, the pain is still there but receding.

"I don't know how to help with that. Can you tell me?"

He doesn't know either. In Heaven this sort of thing doesn't happen. Angels are wounded and sometimes killed, but their grace replenishes itself, or else their brethren's grace helps to replenish it.

"I brought a wet cloth," Sam pulls his hand away, and the pain worsens again. Sam must notice, because he almost immediately turns back. "Hey, hey, easy. It's okay, it's okay, Cas, shh... You've got a fever, okay? I don't think meds are going to help, but this'll make it feel better. We're going to cool you down. Dean's at work, he'll be back later. This okay?"

There's water trickling down Castiel's hairline, but the cloth is cool and it does feel as though it's helping. Sam's free hand is resting lightly on his bare arm. He shifts a little under the touch, but it feels nice. He tries to tell Sam, only to see Sam flinch again, hard. He swallows, throat sore.

"Sam?" He barely recognizes his own voice.

Sam wipes at his face with the cloth. "It's okay, you're in pain. I know you can't help the screaming. It's okay," he says.

He doesn't understand, he hasn't been screaming. Then again, maybe he has been, he thinks suddenly. "I'm sorry..."

"Don't be, it's fine. Try to sleep, okay?"

Angels don't need to sleep, but Castiel closes his eyes anyway, and is almost surprised when the darkness closes in. The pain comes and goes after that —somewhere in the back of his mind Castiel likens it to the ebb and flow of the tide, rushing in and pulling out again. Sam comes and goes with the pain, bringing water and ice and fresh cloths to wipe him down. Castiel doesn't know how long he's been here, and the thought is an alarming one. Time doesn't pass in Heaven the way it does on Earth, but he's losing time, he can tell, and it takes Sam holding him down by the shoulders to prevent him from getting up from his bed.

"Cas, you have to stay put. You're too badly hurt. Listen to me, Cas. Dean will be back soon, you just have to wait for him. Just wait until he's back and you talk to him, okay?"

He doesn't understand it, but it's obvious enough now —the pain lessens when Sam is here. "Okay," he agrees, but when Sam moves as though to get up from the bed he finds himself clutching at him reflexively.

"Whoa, easy. You want me to stay?" Sam asks softly, and he nods, a little ashamed of his own weakness and yet unwilling to let the his source of relief move away. It should be Sam's choice, though. He has enough scruples left for this one thing, at least.

"It's —it's better when you're here. The pain, I mean."

Sam catches his lower lip in his teeth, but he's smiling. "Of course I'll stay, Cas. Anything, you know that."

It's too hard to keep his eyes open after that, but he squeezes Sam's hand when Sam laces their fingers together, lets out a breath in a shuddering sigh when he feels the wet cloth come back into contact with his overheated skin. He has no idea how much time passes, but the next thing he's aware of is Dean's voice, coming from what sounds like far away.

"Hey, here you are. You been here all day, Sammy?"

"Shh." This time the shushing sound isn't directed at Castiel, he's quite sure of it. "I think he's still sleeping, you'll wake him up."

"Sorry," Dean's voice drops to a whisper. "How is he?"

"Hard to tell, but I don't think it's good. I mean, I didn't even know angels could get fevers."

"Tell me about it. I guess we'll just fudge our way through. He tell you what happened to him?"

"No, he's been in and out all day. Not really coherent. You okay?" Sam's voice has a new note to it, a tinge of worry that's different from the worry he's expressed for Castiel thus far.

"Fine, just tired. Long day. You? You look..." Dean must make some sort of gesture, because Sam answers with a sigh.

"He keeps... I don't know. It sounds like screaming, but it's not. When the pain's bad. Like before, when he was —it's hard to describe. I can't help him, and it _hurts_..."

"You want me to sit with him for a while? Give you a break?"

"No. He —it's not as bad if I keep touching him. See?"

Sam's hand lifts away from where it's been resting on Castiel's arm, and immediately the pain, kept at bay for so long, comes rushing back so hard that he can't bite back the moan that spills from his lips. Sam puts his hand back over his wrist, and Castiel almost weeps with relief. He hears Dean grunt softly, and then the bed dips a little. Dean puts a hand on his shoulder and gives it a gentle shake.

"Hey, Cas. Wake up for me for a minute?"

He opens his eyes, finds himself staring right at Dean's concerned features. He looks older, Castiel thinks, the lines around his eyes more pronounced, but he also looks better than before, less exhausted. As though he's no longer carrying the entire weight of the world on his shoulders. His throat hurts, and unused as he is to identifying his vessel's needs, it takes him a moment to realise he's thirsty again.

"Dean?"

Dean looks away, and Castiel wonders if he's said something wrong, but it turns out Dean was only reaching for the water glass, which he holds up so Castiel can drink from it. "There you go," he says encouragingly. "Small sips, or you'll get stomach cramps. Maybe. I guess maybe angels don't get stomach cramps from drinking too fast. Better safe than sorry, though, right? Sam says you're not doing too well, Cas."

He finishes the water, licks his lips. "I'm... I don't think so."

Sam moves away to give Dean space, and it's all Castiel can do not to whimper at the loss of contact. Dean doesn't miss the abortive movement he makes in Sam's direction, though, and carefully brushes his fingers against Castiel's cheek.

"So what's going on with you? We're doing our best, here, but we're totally out of our depth. We don't even know what happened to you, and I sure as hell don't know how to help with any of this. Why's it help when Sam touches you?"

Castiel risks a look towards Sam, looks back at Dean. "Grace... I think. I can —if I were in Heaven, the other angels would help heal me. I can heal on my own, but it hurts. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"It's okay," Sam interrupts, voice soft."It's nice to be able to help."

Dean isn't following the reasoning the way Sam is, Castiel can tell by the puzzled look on his face. "Cas... what are you saying?"

Sam clears his throat. "Lucifer. Don't freak out, okay?"

Dean's grip tightens on Castiel's shoulder, but Castiel is certain he hasn't realized it. "And why exactly shouldn't I freak out?"

"It's a remnant," Castiel tries to explain. "A trace, or more accurately an echo... the same way Sam can hear but not understand when I send thoughts forms. He was the vessel for the Morningstar, however briefly. Built for him. Lucifer's grace lingers in him still."

Dean rubs a hand over his mouth. He looks distressed, Castiel thinks, and the thought isn't a happy one. "Is that why he's—"

"No," Sam interrupts again. "That's just... just Hell, Dean. You know that. He's gone, still down there. It's okay. It's just —Cas is loud, is all. It's not his fault, he doesn't mean to hurt me, he's just hurting. I want to help," he insists, and Dean scrubs both hands over his face, looking more than a little doubtful about the whole situation.

That he's causing Sam pain is news to Castiel, though. "Sam... it hurts you? To hear me?"

Sam shrugs and looks away. "It sounds like screaming."

"I'm sorry," Castiel closes his eyes, suddenly tired again. "I didn't realize my true voice was bleeding through."

"I didn't hear anything," Dean says. "Last time you used your true voice you just about ruptured my ear drums."

"I've been trying to keep quiet. I think Sam is just more sensitive to it now. I should find somewhere else to—"

"No," Dean says firmly. "Look, it sucks, and I'm really not happy at the idea that you're giving Sam a mother of a migraine, here, but I don't think you'd be safe anywhere else. We don't even know if there aren't —people, or angels, or things or whatever after you. Sam wants you to stay, so that makes it two votes to your one, and you don't get a veto. Right, Sammy?"

"Right."

"So, apart from having Sam here hold your hand the entire time, how do we help?"

Castiel makes an effort to sit up, pushing at the thin mattress with both hands until Dean rolls his eyes and helps him. "It's not realistic for Sam to hold my hand until I am recovered," he points out once he's recovered his breath, the wound in his side still throbbing.

"Yeah, I think we established that already. So what else can we do?"

He shakes his head. "I honestly don't know. This has never happened before."

To his surprise, Dean grins. "Busting out of the mould again. Damn, but we're predictable that way. I take it there isn't a kind of angelic painkiller. You got any friends up in Heaven who'd be willing to help out?"

He winces in spite of himself, the image of Rachel's sword flashing at him still fresh in his mind. "No. I think... I think I would not be welcome there right now. Too much change at once is frightening, even for angels. I was perhaps overly zealous in my attempts to demonstrate what free will could do."

That provokes a snort from Dean. "Oh my God, Cas, what did you do that's making all of Heaven freak out now? It's not Raphael who did this to you, is it?"

"No, Raphael is gone. I haven't seen him since you and I trapped him. I think, perhaps, our Father called him to order, or reassigned him. I don't really know, to be honest. Everything is in disarray, and all the angels are frightened."

"Fear makes people do all sorts of things," Sam says unexpectedly, and Castiel can only nod in agreement.

"So, what... we've got a sky full of terrified creatures that each have the power to obliterate a small country if they want?"

"Not all of them are that powerful," Castiel hastens to reassure him, although there are more than enough angels to destroy the world a hundred times over if they so chose. They're simply all too accustomed to being the custodians of the status quo to simply turn to mindless destruction, or so, at least, he hopes.

"Yeah, that's not comforting, Cas. Okay," Dean shakes himself. "We can't do anything about that right now. Is anything likely to come after you here? The guy who stabbed you, for instance?"

"Impossible."

"What, like, you made yourself unfindable?" Dean unconsciously presses a hand to his ribs, where the Enochian symbols Castiel carved into them subsist even now.

"No, I mean that you are —protected. I don't know by what or by whom, or even how, but you are protected. There is a —a barrier. I can't explain it better," Castiel fumbles for his words, the growing pain making it difficult to concentrate. Sam seems to sense his discomfort, reaches under the blanket to grasp his bare ankle, and the confusion dissipates a little. "We're safe, for now at least."

"Small mercies," Dean blows out his cheeks, but he looks exasperated. He glances quickly to where Sam's hand is clasped, keeping the pain at bay, then seems to make up his mind. "All right. Nothing we can do about that, and I don't know about you, but I'm starving. Sammy, we still got leftovers from yesterday?"

Sam nods. "I made gazpacho, too. It's in the fridge. And there's bread and cheese and some bologna left over for sandwiches if you don't want yesterday's leftovers tonight. We can have them tomorrow."

Dean smiles at him as though Sam has handed him all the world's riches on a silver platter. "Unpronounceable soup and sandwiches it is, then. Cas, I know it sounds gross, but it's actually pretty much cold tomato and veggie soup, and Sam puts something pretty tangy in it, so you're going to do us all a favour and eat. I don't know how this stuff works, but I figure eating can't hurt and it might help."

Castiel isn't sure he should be doing any such thing. Sam and Dean have very little money on which to get by, and he can't help but think that adding a third mouth to feed would be an intolerable burden. "I don't require nourishment."

"Just like you don't need water, either, but it's obviously doing you some good. Did I mention you don't get a vote on this, either?" Dean says, his words a little sharp, but his tone is fond. "Come on, lie back down. Sammy and I will go fix dinner, and you get to lie very still and try to get some more sleep until then. Got it?"

"Very well, but it's not necessary," Castiel says again, even as he's letting Dean help him back to a lying position.

This time, when Sam takes away his hand, the pain isn't quite as bad as before. He bends over the bed, brushes his finger over Castiel's cheek, and the pain disappears entirely.

"Don't worry, Cas," he promises. "We've got this."


End file.
